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After an eight-hour flight to New York City, followed by an hour wait before her two-hour flight to Minneapolis, with the time difference, Libby stepped off the plane only four hours after she’d left Barcelona. She felt every minute of her trip, however. She hugged her father and mother and did her very best not to dissolve into the tears she’d fought all the way home. If she began to cry, she feared she’d spend the rest of her life weeping.
“Santos has called a couple of times,” her father reported on the way to the car. “He wanted to know when you got home safely, and he called again because he forgot to give you the posters he’d promised. He’s mailing them.”
“Bullfight posters?” her mother asked. “They’ll liven up your room.”
Libby covered a wide yawn. “Yeah, they’re colorful all right.” She climbed into the backseat of their car and watched the lights blur as they sped along. It was a familiar scene, not the endless excitement of Spain, but she’d left so much of herself behind, she felt lost rather than at home.
The following week, Santos went to the advertising agency to review the sales campaign. He’d made himself go to physical therapy every morning, but before today, he hadn’t left the house otherwise. He’d neglected his friends for so long, few remembered to call him, and when they did, he gave them curt responses and hung up.
Armand spread the photos out on the long worktable. “Each one has its own appeal, but I want to begin with the more sultry poses and later in the campaign bring in the ones with you two laughing together.”
Santos missed Libby so badly he could barely stand to look at the photos and wished he hadn’t come. She had such a glowing beauty, and, seated behind her, he had the brooding intensity of a dark shadow. “I hadn’t meant to look so, well, hostile.”
“You don’t look hostile,” Denise assured him. She pushed her red glasses up her nose and pointed to her favorite. “You’re smiling here. Don’t you like this one?”
All he saw was Libby. “You’re the professionals. Choose whichever ones please you. Just give me two sets so I can send one to Libby.”
“I have them for you.” Armand handed him the manila envelopes. “Now let me show you the ad mockups.” They were on the computer, but he also had them displayed on large charts. “What do you think of Aragon, the scent of ancient kings?”
Santos laughed. “Kings didn’t bathe that often.”
“That’s exactly what I told him,” Roberto interjected. He nearly swiped Santos in the face with his ponytail as he flipped to the second chart where several slogans were written. “We want to say the cologne does all the work. Sin palabras. You don’t need words. Or, No words. Or, Without a word. Do you like any of those?”
Santos glanced toward the photo display. How closely he resembled his father was deeply disturbing. “We’re selling a cologne named for a matador, not a king. You only need one word: Deadly.”
After a long moment of stunned silence, Armand cheered and slapped Santos on the back. “Deadly is perfection! If you leave the bullring, you must come to work with us.”
His nodded, his lack of enthusiasm for the prospect plain. “Thank you. That’s the first job offer I’ve ever received.” He took the photos and wished he could take the stairs so he wouldn’t have to ride down alone in the elevator. The problem was, even after he’d sent Libby home, he could still feel her, as though she were nearby, but maddeningly, just out of sight.
“Libby, the mailman brought you something from Santos,” Linda called up the stairs.
Libby had been stretched out on her bed, reading one of her textbooks for the fall semester. She didn’t usually spend her summers being so studious, but she wanted to graduate with the highest possible grades. She marked her place and left the book on her desk. She’d really wanted bullfight posters when she’d asked for one, but now she dreaded seeing them.
She came downstairs, and her mother handed her a foam-lined envelope that had Fotos stamped across it. There were colorful stamps from Spain and stickers from Customs. “These must be from the advertising agency.” She balanced the package in her hands.
“Open it,” her mother urged. “I’ll get some scissors.”
Libby sank down on the second step. She didn’t need photos to remember Santos. She had scant hope he’d included a letter begging her to forgive him for tossing her out without even a day’s notice. When her mother handed her the kitchen shears, she took care to cut the end carefully, but she handed the package to her.
“You open it. I know what’s in it.”
Her mother shook the envelop
e to free the photos, but there were more than she’d anticipated, and they spilled onto the floor. She picked up the one closest to her foot. “Libby, you’re so beautiful here!”
“I look like a drug lord’s call girl.”
“You do not! You may have a different hairstyle and more makeup than you usually wear, but you could be Miss Minnesota in the Miss America pageant. What’s chilling is how closely Santos resembles Miguel, but you two make a stunning couple.”
Libby simply felt stunned. She hadn’t told her parents how she and Santos had parted, and they hadn’t pried, but with Patricia bubbling about Fox constantly, she could sit through meals unnoticed. She helped her mother gather the photos, and, while she knew better than to check the envelope for a note, she did anyway. Santos hadn’t even included a Post-it note. “Bastard,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Whenever you’re ready to tell me what happened, I’ll be happy to listen,” her mother offered, and they carried the photos into the dining room.
Maggie waited until she’d found the perfect apartment as an excuse to call on Santos. He was in the den, stretched out on the sofa, reading. He looked tired and thin. She was still too angry with him to be sympathetic. “You look awful.”
“Thank you. You’re pretty as always. I didn’t think you were speaking to me.” He closed his book and sat up.
“I’m not, but I wanted to give you our new address.”
